There were two security cameras on the lintel of the twelve-foot street door of the Morrison Building, but Ellen kept her head down as she entered, walked across the huge glass and marble lobby and rode up in the elevator to the ninth floor. Remaining anonymous in the elevator was hard. The four walls were polished bronze that reflected as well as mirrors to the small security camera in the corner.
The door to RBK Security was guarded by two security cameras, and you were either buzzed in or you dealt with a topflight security panel located on the right-hand side, because the door had no doorknob.
She lowered her head even more as a whirring sound came from above her head. Good God, their cameras were motorized!
Well, it was a security company, and she’d been assured they were really good.
They’d better be, because otherwise she was dead.
She rang the bell. There was a click and the door slid silently open. Ellen walked in gingerly, heart starting to pound.
Was this a good idea? Because if it wasn’t, if she was putting herself into the wrong hands, there was no turning back, and she’d pay the ultimate price.
The lobby was wonderful—luxurious yet comfortable, with huge, thriving plants, soft classical music in the background, the faint smell of lemon polish, deep, plush armchairs. A secretary sat behind a U-shaped counter. She smiled in welcome.
“Are you Ms. Charles? Mr. Reston will be in shortly. Please have a seat.”
For a second, Ellen decoghtidn’t respond, thinking the receptionist was talking to someone else. But there wasn’t anyone else around.
She closed her eyes in dismay. Of course.
She’d booked the appointment under the name Nora Charles, which was stupid. Any film buff would recognize it as a fake name, but she’d been so desperate when she’d called and she’d just sat through a triple feature of The Thin Man, After the Thin Man and Shadow of the Thin Man last night in San Francisco, waiting for the first bus to San Diego. An all-nighter at the cinema was the only thing she could think of to stay off the streets.
She’d started the journey the day before yesterday in Seattle and hadn’t slept more than an hour or two in three days.
But exhaustion was no excuse.
Forgetting her cover name was terrifyingly dangerous. She was alive because she was always alert, always. Forgetting her cover name for just a second was inviting death. And if there was one thing the past year had taught her, it was that she didn’t want to die. She wanted—desperately—to live.
Nora Charles was her fifth cover name in twelve months. Forget all the others and concentrate on this one, she told herself.
She was mentally putting together a little fake bio for Nora, just to give Nora a little heft in her head, when the receptionist suddenly said, “Yessir, I will.”
Ellen really was exhausted, because she couldn’t figure out who the receptionist was talking to. There was no one else in the lobby and she wasn’t talking into a phone. Then she saw the very neat, very small and very expensive headset attached to one ear and understood.
Wow. She should have noticed it.
This was truly dangerous. Her exhaustion was catching up with her. She felt stupid with fatigue. Stupid people died, very badly. Particularly ones with Gerald Montez and his army after them.
“Ms. Charles?”
Ellen looked up. “Yes?”
“Mr. Reston has been delayed. Beendivut Mr. Bolt is free. They are both partners in the company.”
“How—how long will Mr. Reston be delayed?”
“He doesn’t know.” The receptionist had a kindly look, unusual in such upscale surroundings. Usually an employee in such a swank, obviously successful company was snooty and remote. This woman looked gentle. As if she somehow understood. “It might be a long time. Mr. Bolt is very good, too.”
Oh, God. Kerry, the woman who’d told her about RBK Security, had dealt with Sam Reston, who’d saved her life. She had no idea what this Mr. Bolt was like. Maybe Sam Reston worked on the down low to rescue women in danger and this Bolt didn’t know anything about it. What then?
Ellen closed her eyes for just a second, wishing she could either rewind her life to a year ago or fast forward to a year in the future, when either she’d be settled in a new life or she’d be dead. Because if she didn’t do something, now, she was surely headed toward a slow and painful death.
Gerald Montez didn’t forgive.
But she kept having to make these split-second decisions, with no training for them, no way to judge whether she was making the right choice or throwing her life away.
The lion or the lady, every time, every day.
And now toss exhaustion and sleeplessness into the mix. How to choose?
She looked the receptionist in the eyes. Ellen was a good judge of character, and now she had to trust her instincts. The receptionist looked back at her calmly, seemingly undisturbed that the lunatic lady, who looked as if she hadn’t slept in three days because she hadn’t, was staring her in the face, taking minutes for a decision that shouldn’t take a second.
Except—like all her decisions this past year—her life hung in the balance.
The receptionist stayed calm, eyes kind. Maybe she was used to desperate people. Maybe the desperate were tossed up on this doorstep daily.
“Okay,” Ellen finally said, clutching her hands. Please let this be the right choice. She sent the prayer up to whoever was up there, who’d been noticeably absent lately. “I’ll see Mr. Bolt. Thank you.”
The receptionist nodded. “The second door to your right. Mr. Bolt’s name is on the door. He’s waiting for you.”
Ellen nodded and slowly made her way to the big corridor on the right. As she passed in front of the desk, the receptionist looked up and Ellen saw understanding in her eyes.
“It will be okay,” the receptionist said softly. “Don’t worry. Mr. Bolt will make it okay.”
No, it wouldn’t be okay. It would never be okay again.
Harry sat at his desk, trying to clear his mind of his last client, London Harriman, heiress to a real estate empire. She wanted him to stop publication of a sex tape by a tabloid website.
She didn’t mind that the sex tape was going to be put online, mind you. Oh no. She’d recorded it specifically in order to release it and she’d assured him that it had been shot “professionally.” No, what had got her panties—or lack of panties—in a twist was that she wouldn’t be in control of the timing or the release venue.
She wanted him to stop the gossip website from putting it up. She’d handed him a copy with a coy smile, saying she wanted him to watch it. So he’d understand.
London had come on to him, real heavy, but then Harry imagined that London came on to anything with a penis, particularly if that man could even marginally help her in her goal of becoming the Socialite Sex Goddess of the World.
She was beautiful and buffed to a shine, wearing what he imagined at a rough guess—Sam’s wife, Nicole, would probably know the amount down to the dollar—to be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of . . . stuff, from the designer purse, designer shoes, designer shades, to the big flashy designer jewels.
She’d carefully and slowly crossed her legs, showing a pantyless crotch that had been shaved except for a little landing strip in the middle, so she had a designer twat, too.
Harry hated this shit, but he had been designated by Sam and Mike as the go-to guy for the asshole clients, and he owed his two brothers so much he accepted the Asshole Detail without complaint.
Plus, they both knew that he was constitutionally incapable of being rude or discourteous to a woman.
His curse.
After quoting double their usual fee, Harry got the details, the copy of the tape of the delectable London fucking the man du jour, and the name and website of the so-called journalist who was going to post the tape tomorrow.
Five minutes after the door had closed behind London, Harry had found the file on the online tabloid’s
servers, degraded it, left some spyware and a very clear message that any attempt to post the file would cause the entire archives of the site to be degraded beyond repair, effectively putting them out of business. He toyed with the idea of signing the message “The Twat’s Avenger” but decided not to. It was touch and go there for a moment, though.
Have to get your jollies where you can.
Five minutes, fifty thousand dollars. Not bad. And twenty-five thousand of that fifty was going into their Lost Ones Fund, their own personal Underground Railroad.
Twenty-five thousand dollars from London’s trust fund would not be used to buy a fur or a week at a fancy spa or luxury rehab or a couple of Rolexes. That money would be spent on some abused woman who was running for her life. Most of the women who came to them left home under cover of darkness with nothing but the clothes on their backs, sometimes—tragically—with their kids. They did that because if they stayed they’d be beaten to death.
Harry and his brothers gave them a new life and enough money to start that life.
Great, great feeling. Maybe he should have charged London triple their usual fee. Buy some safety for a lot of little kids, that would.
He was frowning over that when Marisa announced the next client, a Ms. Nora Charles.
She’d had an appointment with Sam, but Sam had called to say that Nicole was having bad morning sickness and he’d come in when she was better.
Harry knew his brother Sam. Not even the threat of nuclear war would keep Sam from Nicole’s side when she wasn’t feeling well. Sam would stay by her side until she felt better. That was the bottom line.
Harry respected that. He liked Nicole, a lot. And he liked it that she made Sam so happy. Well, happy . . . Sam seemed really happy with her when he wasn’t panicking about some imaginary danger to Nicole around every corner. And now that there was a kid on the way, whoa.
Sam was going to have to dial down his crazy overprotectiveness, though Harry doubted he could. Sam Reston, big, huge, tough guy, good with a rifle, good with his fists, was a total wuss when it came to his wife. And the little girl on the way? Sam would probably keep her under armed guard throughout her childhood and let her date when she turned thirty. Maybe.
Mike was out on a recon for a jeweler who had received death threats.
So today Harry was it.
Nora Charles, huh? Did she think no one could remember the Thin Man movies? He sent up a little prayer. Please, God, not another heiress under a fake name. Harry had had his heiress quotient for the year with London even though it was still April.
He was bracing himself for more nonsense as his door slid open.
And then Marisa clicked twice on the intercom—their code—and he thought, Oh shit. Nora Charles had called on their special hotline, the underground railroad.
And then the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen walked in to his office.
Women were rarely clients of RBK Security, the mainstream, overground part of it, anyway. Mostly the clientele was corporate—something was leaking money and they wanted it stopped. Or they wanted their security system upgraded. He and Sam and Mike mostly dealt with their opposite corporate numbers, heads of security, or with the Big Guy himself—the CEO. Mostly men. And, of course, the odd heiress.
But the woman walking in to his office was definitely not an heiress. Not with those plain, nondescript clothes that were so rumpled they looked as if she’d slept in them. Not with those nails bitten down to the quick. Not with that glorious red hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders. Not with those dark circles under beautiful green eyes that were revealed when she pulled off her big sunglasses.
No, Harry thought sadly as he rose to greet her. She wasn’t a pampered heiress. She was one of the Lost Ones.
Chapter 2
Ellen walked in to the office warily. Her friend Kerry had had dealings with the R of RBK, Sam Reston. So this was the B. Harry Bolt.E
Kerry had talked about Sam Reston and hadn’t said anything at all about the other two partners. Maybe Ellen was making a big mistake. Maybe this Bolt would turn her in to Gerald. Maybe she was signing her death warrant right now, she thought, as the door behind her slid silently closed, presenting a smooth expanse. She turned for a second, alarmed that the door had no doorknob and no hinges.
No way to get out.
It took her almost a full minute to realize that the button on the right-hand wall was probably the door release mechanism.
Heart pounding, Ellen turned back just as this Harry Bolt stood up. And up. And up.
He was amazingly tall. Amazingly . . . big. Huge, strong, unsmiling.
A lot of Gerald’s operators had that look. Intent, focused, dangerous. Trained to hurt.
Ellen started to step back, but stopped herself. If there was one thing she’d learned in this past year, it was not to show fear. Her palms were sweating but she had no intention of shaking hands, so he didn’t have to know.
“Ms. Charles? Please come in. Make yourself comfortable.” Harry Bolt had a deep, calm voice. He watched her carefully, unmoving. Perhaps he realized that his size was unsettling and he did the only thing he could do to reassure her: stay still.
Heart thudding, Ellen walked carefully across the large office and sat down in one of two chairs facing his desk. Client chairs, clearly. If this was for real, if what Kerry had told her was true, and if this Harry Bolt did what Sam Reston did, then a lot of terrified women had sat in this very chair.
Were they all still alive? Had they been betrayed? Were they now rotting in some ditch or at the bottom of some lake, beaten to death?
Only one way to find out.
And yet she was so scared, it was hard to find enough oxygen to speak. She had to wait until she was certain that her voice would be strong and not shake.
This Harry Bolt didn’t seem to have any problems with waiting. He’d taken his seat after her and just sat there, watching her.
His eyes were an extraordinary color. A light brown that looked almost golden, like an eagle’s eyes. Ellen mentally shook herself. Come on, you’ve got more important things to think about than the color of this guy’s eyes. Like your life.
She breathed in and out a few times, gathering her courage. Harry Bolt simply sat and waited, showing no signs of impatience.
Start obliquely, she thought. It would be a little test. If he had no idea what she was talking about, she’d go back outside and wait for Sam Reston, even if it took days.
Though she probably didn’t have days. She might not live to see the sun set.
Deep breath. “The first thing I want to say is that Dove says hello. She says she’s doing fine and she wants to thank you.”
There. See what he made of that.
Harry Bolt watched her face intently, then nodded his head. “I’m glad,” he said quietly, somberly. “Sam told me she’s a good kid.”
Right answer. Okay.
“Dove” was Kerry Robinson, and she was a good kid, but she’d had the bad luck to be married to a violent drunk who nearly killed her. Kerry Robinson wasn’t her real name, and she’d known Ellen as Irene Ball. It didn’t matter that their names weren’t genuine because the danger to them was.
A year ago, Ellen had entered a world where women changed their names because there were monsters out looking for them. Somehow, Ellen had also entered some kind of sisterhood where not much had to be said to understand.
Some time back, Kerry had quietly told her that a man had been asking for her. It turned out he was only looking for a date, but Kerry had seen how scared Ellen was. And knew. So she’d given Ellen the special card with the special number on it that led to RBK.
“Are you in the same kind of trouble?” Harry Bolt asked quietly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You’re going to need to disappear?”
>Among other things. “Yes.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his torso on muscled forearms. Ellen watched his hands carefully. They were large
, scarred, powerful. He noted her glance and kept his hands very still.
She raised her eyes to his.
“I’m not the enemy,” he said quietly.
Maybe. Maybe not.
She couldn’t allow her vigilance to drop, not for one second. This man looked just as dangerous as any of Gerald’s minions. More dangerous, even. He was perfectly able to repress those macho mess-with-me-and-you’re-dead-meat vibes all of Gerald’s men had, including Gerald himself.
This man was just as big and strong as the biggest and baddest of Gerald’s men. And he’d been a Special Forces soldier. Ellen had read the thumbnail bios of all three partners in RBK at an Internet café, waiting for her appointment. She was going to place her life in the company’s hands and she wanted to know what she was dealing with. So this Harry Bolt had been a Special Forces soldier and was way on top of the toughness scale, but his vibe was . . . calm. Serene.
Her intense anxiety went down half a notch.
They looked at each other, dead silence in the room.
Ellen was running possible openings through her mind when he said, voice still calm, “But you do have an enemy.”
She nodded her head jerkily.
Oh God, this was so hard.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he suggested.
She drew in a deep breath. Beginning. Okay.
“I, um. I’m an accountant. A CPA.” She thought about it, about the smoking ruins of her existence. “Or was. In another life.”
About the Author
LISA MARIE RICE is eternally 30 years old and will never age. She is tall and willowy and beautiful. Men drop at her feet like ripe pears. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archeology, nuclear physics and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. Did I mention the Nobel? Of course, Lisa Marie Rice is a virtual woman and exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.
Also by Lisa Marie Rice
Fatal Heat Page 15